


Bound to Me

by jujubeans



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arse Worship, M/M, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4280922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubeans/pseuds/jujubeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has Sherlock right where he wants him... now what?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> A little drabble to pick-me-up. Hope you enjoy.  
> Atlin, thank you for the pep-talk :0)

_Mmmmmmm. What a glorious sight._

Right there in front of him. Not four inches away from his lips. If he stuck out his tongue and leant forward just a smidge he’d be able to touch the tip to it. He could lick along the curve – it would glide smoothly across the surface like an oiled finger across glass. His nan used to have an old walnut cocktail cabinet with curved glass panels. He remembered staring at it for hours when he was a child. While his grandfather sat in his recliner watching spaghetti westerns, John would sit and look at that cabinet, wondering how they made the glass curve impossibly like that. Wondering if it was as weak and fragile as it looked. 

A muscle in the curve in front of him flexed, changing the shape of the arc. John expelled his breath in a rush. Just when he thought Sherlock’s arse couldn’t get any better he clenched and the shape altered, reminding John it was attached to a living, breathing being. He stared. He could feel his heart rate elevating. He shook his head slowly to himself – just standing still, here in front of Sherlock’s bounteous arse, witnessing it clench once and his heart was beating faster than if he’d just run up the front stairs at full speed. Was he really that far gone?

Then again, there was a superb quality to the arse. Despite the fact that it belonged to the most brilliant man John had ever met, despite the fact that he was currently fucking said arse on a daily basis – and ooooooohhh how he fucked it. And fucked it. And fucked it. Despite the fact that he loved the man who was attached to it (something that still surprised the hell out of him) he could still look at the arse objectively and acknowledge that it was in fact the MOST sublime behind he’d ever seen.

Tentatively, John raised a hand, not wanting to break the spell that had him slightly glazed over – you know that place, where you get a lovely comfortable stare going and just zone out… He could’ve stayed in that happy place for hours, but it seemed his hand desired stimulation. As slowly as he moved, Sherlock must have sensed it because the perfect globes twitched. John paused. They twitched again, just gently but enough for John to smile as he realised Sherlock was getting impatient. Well that was just going to make John pause again, wasn’t it.

John dropped his hand. He took a step back to admire his rigging. 

Sherlock hung, suspended face-up, almost parallel to the ground from six eight-foot lengths of red linen nawa, or rope. John had spent the better part of ninety slow, quiet minutes applying another ten seven- and six-foot lengths of black silk nawa to Sherlock’s pale, perfect body. Wrapping and binding Sherlock was a sublime privilege and he treated each minute with reverence. Every inch he smoothed across that limpid body, every wrap, every repeat, every configuration he wove onto Sherlock’s canvas felt like a tribute. No matter how he worked or what design he applied he could never bring himself to lace the nawa across that incredible arse. Tonight he’d used a hip harness around Sherlock’s thighs and waist, lacing in an intricate pattern over his abdomen, with the linen suspension ropes threading through the hip weave. Sherlock’s arms and legs were secured with dragonfly harnesses with the linen suspensions through the knee and chest weave patterns. He was completely at John’s mercy. Later, when John removed each wrap of the silk nawa the evidence of where it had kissed his skin would remain for them to admire for hours.

John mentally nudged himself. It was so quiet when they were like this. Both of them leaving words behind, leaving communication to gentle sounds and touch. Sometimes it was easy to lose track of time, getting lost in the beauty of how this drew them together deeply, somehow on another level of ‘close’. Something _different… other._

Decision made, John progressed. He took one small step forward, reached up to softly grip the red ropes, tilted his head back and sunk his teeth into the upper curve of Sherlock’s arse.


End file.
